by Colt, K. J.
The herd ran south for nearly a mile until a thin tree line forced them toward the mines. Talon pulled hard on the buffalo until it began moving to the right through the running herd. When he was finally near the tree line, he prepared to jump off. He couldn’t see Fylkin through the thick rain, which meant he too went unseen for the time being.
The road came into view, and Talon pulled back on the buffalo’s hair as hard as he could. The animal’s head shot to the sky, and he suddenly stomped down on his front legs, sending Talon flying over its head. He ducked his head and tucked his legs and landed on his rounded back and tumbled end over end. Before he could worry about his possible injuries, he scrambled out of the way of the buffalo herd as it sped by. The mines were only a few hundred yards to the south, but Talon didn’t want to lose Fylkin. He stopped and watched the herd rush by. His heart was beating so fast from all the excitement that he feared it might burst at any moment. Faintly he heard the call of Fylkin.
He was coming.
Talon turned and headed for the mines. The road here was covered in stone that had fallen from wagons for decades and was therefore smooth and firm rather than muddy and rutted. The small stream to the left of the road had transformed into a small river. Talon stayed to the middle of the rocky road, knowing he was very close to the mines. He looked back one more time and cried in alarm when he saw Fylkin gaining.
Fylkin’s longsword cut through the rain, and a look of victory spread across his painted face. He came after Talon like the spirit of death—all teeth and white eyes.
He leapt to the side as the sword cut the air behind him. Fylkin growled angrily and leapt from the buffalo as Talon got to his feet and sprinted towards the mines.
Five feet from the wood-framed entrance to the mines, Fylkin grabbed a handful of his hair. The giant Vald turned and threw him as one would a pumpkin by the stem. Talon flew end over end through the rain and landed badly. Pain shot through his knee and forehead, but still he staggered to get up.
Fylkin stalked toward him like a wolf sensing the kill. Talon had been so close; he almost made it. He leapt to his feet and screamed in the big Vald’s face.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?”
The ring in his hand turned night into day for a brief moment and set the rain to glowing blue. He stood proud and strong, and Fylkin wavered for a second. Talon took up his dagger and held it high. Fylkin raised his sword in answer.
“A Skomm with a blade—that is punishable by death,” said Fylkin as he began to circle Talon.
“Someday you will pay for your crimes,” said Talon, trying not to show he was eyeing the mines.
Talon crouched down and turned with him. The way to the mines was now clear, but Fylkin stopped and began circling in the other direction, cutting him off from the mines once more.
“I had planned to kill the red-haired whore in front of you, but I think I will keep her now. She has proven…delicious,” Fylkin grinned, his eyes never leaving the glowing ring.
Talon’s blood boiled. He wanted nothing more than to climb up the giant man and slit his throat. Fylkin saw this in his eyes and laughed.
“She satisfied my every need,” he growled.
Talon shook with rage and the ring glowed ever brighter. Lightning cracked and webbed across the sky; it looked as if the heavens had come to swallow up the whole world. With a cry of rage, he charged at Fylkin. The big sword came down fast. Talon felt a surge of power from the ring; his arms and legs pumped in a blur, and he dove under Fylkin’s legs as the sword bit into the earth behind him. He rolled and came up in a flash.
He ran into the mines and immediately went down the tunnel to the right, the glow of the ring illuminating the way. Fylkin’s heavy footfalls followed, and Talon cursed the brightness of the ring and tried to cover its glow. He knew the mines well enough to make his way without it, however, he doubted Fylkin did.
The tunnel opened into a large room; three tunnels branched off here. He took the tunnel to the left, which would bring him back around toward the exit. He tried to step lightly, but his footfalls echoed throughout the tomb-like shaft. He followed the tunnel to a fork in the passage and veered to the left once more, letting enough of the ring’s light glowing to attract Fylkin. Ahead, lightning flashed beyond the mouth of the shaft. He was going to make it; it would all be over soon. They would be free…
Talon ran for the entrance and dove through it. He cried to the heavens, hoping that Moontooth’s cronies heard him.
“Now!” he screamed into the torrent, fearing his voice would be lost in the howling winds.
Nothing happened. He looked back at the entrance and thought he saw the white, glowing eyes of Fylkin.
“Now, light it up! He’s in the mine! Do it n…”
The explosion lifted Talon into the air and covered him in flames. He landed twenty feet away and rolled to a stop sizzling in the rain. He saw nothing but the flash of the explosion, as if it had been burned into his eyes. A sharp ringing echoed in every corner of his mind. The choking fumes of the explosion filled his nose, and everything went black.
Foggy figures stood beside him talking in muffled voices. Three horses stood nearby. Sound came rushing back to him and he shot up awake.
“Well I’ll be a son of a Bikkja!” said one of the men.
“The little feikin Draugr did it,” the other mused, shaking his head.
Talon had never seen the two Vaka before: one with a gimp leg, the other, while well over six feet, was still too short to be Vald.’
Talon shook his head and scrubbed his face with rain and soon wished he had not; the side of his chin was burned. He realized he had many burns and cuts. He was alive; Fylkin was dead, it was over. Thick smoke rolled out of the mines and mixed with the churning winds.
“This one’s yours!” yelled the tallest Vaka, pulling a horse forth. “You’re to make all haste to the docks with this!” he said, handing him a black flag.
Talon eyed the entrance to the mines and smiled to himself. His ring had stopped glowing and he felt the pains of his adventure. With the help of the big Vaka, he mounted the third horse and steadied himself on the saddle.
The gimp-legged man laughed through the rain. “You’d make one hell of a Vak…”
Behind them, a stone crashed through the caved-in entrance. Out of the smoke and fire came Fylkin. His skin hung from him in places, and bright red blood replaced his war paint. Fylkin’s blood-curdling scream drowned out the wild winds, and Talon stared horrified.
The giant Vald lunged and grabbed the shorter Vaka by the hair and ankle. The man beat on him, but his blows were no more use than a child’s. Fylkin lunged down to one knee and broke the Vaka’s back.
Talon kicked the sides of his horse and gave a cry. The animal reared and he was almost thrown out of the saddle. He held on with all his might as the horse shot down the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
FREEDOM WITHIN REACH
I FEAR my own fury; I have seen what I might do. Faith in his stars stays my hand.
—Azzeal, 4996
Talon trusted the horse not to lead them straight into a tree as they sped up the road toward Skomm Village. The storm had become dangerously violent; lightning flashed, revealing a sky tearing itself apart. The giant, churning Eye of Thodin moved slowly across the sky, buffeting the world with rain and hail. Tree branches and small bushes flew past, and Talon wondered if the wind would pick up the horse as well. Trees creaked and groaned as they were felled by the godly winds. He glanced behind him often, waiting to find the bloody chiefson chasing after him.
The plot to kill Fylkin had failed, but the Vaka had given him the black flag; those at the harbor would think he had been successful. If Talon could make it to the docks before the Eye of Thodin, they would be able to leave. They could not wait until tomorrow. Fylkin’s survival would soon be discovered and the deal would be off. The Vaka would all try to save their own hides and the entire plot would be laid bare. All involved w
ould be tortured and killed. Talon would rather risk death at sea than endure the Vald’s torture.
Talon prayed to the gods that his friends waited for him at the docks.
The buffalo field flew by as the horse raced down the road, sparked by the fear of the storm swirling around them. Beyond the swamp they came to the forest and a maze of flooded road and fallen trees. Somehow the horse made it through, and they came upon the Skomm village.
The horse suddenly buckled and fell on its own neck, sending Talon flying through the air. He landed hard on his back and the wind left him. Rain poured over his face as he gasped for air. He clawed at the mud and managed to catch a small breath, and then another, and slowly he took in more. It took what felt like hours for him to be able to breathe normally. He discovered that a large tree branch had fallen in the horse’s path. The animal struggled to stand, and Talon saw the problem. One of the horse’s front legs dangled at the joint.
Unable to help the animal, he ran for the village and followed the road through the huts toward the docks. He knew Fylkin was coming. There had been two horses back there, and though one could not hold his weight for long, he might be able to ride them together.
Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. Just get to the damned harbor without getting killed.
A sound came to him then—an impossible sound, one that made his hair stand on end and his heart sink: the battle cry of Fylkin.
Talon dove for the nearest hut and scrambled inside. It was deserted. He hurried to the window and peaked out. He watched the road to the mines and waited. Soon Fylkin came into view upon a white buffalo. He pulled on its tuft of hair, and it slowed while he scanned the muddy ground.
He must have seen the injured horse, Talon surmised. He knows I’m near.
Fylkin got off the buffalo and gave its backside a slap. It ran off into the storm with wild eyes.
“Plagueborn!” he cried to the heavens. “I will flay your skin and feed it to the wolves!”
Talon ducked down below the window when Fylkin looked his way. When he dared peek over the sill again, the chiefson was staring right at him. Talon sprang from his hiding place and bolted out the door into the biting rain. The wind took his breath away.
As Talon ran in the direction of the harbor, Fylkin gave a victorious growl. Looking over his shoulder, Talon saw him coming with a twisted, wide-eyed smile. Talon ran hard, clutching the dagger tightly in his hand.
He weaved in and out of the huts and made his way back to the road springing through the mud and rain desperately. He had to get Fylkin off his trail before he led the enraged killer to his friends. The village was unrecognizable in the storm. Many of the wood and grass roofs had been torn from their huts. Debris and bodies littered the ground everywhere Talon went.
The rain made it all but impossible to see anything clearly, and while the wind had blown at his back on the way to the mines, it now blew against him, violently. The biggest gusts stopped him in his tracks and sucked the breath from his lungs. The road was no good. Talon ran back to the right, where he would find some reprieve from the gale among the huts. The harbor was less than half a mile to the north.
Talon quickly leapt to take cover from the storm once more in an abandoned hut. He peered through the window at the road and fought to catch his breath. Fylkin seemed unaffected by the wind and stalked down the muddy road with clenched fists. The rain had washed the paint and blood from his knotted, muscular form, and Talon could see that the burns covered half his body. The pain must have been excruciating, but if the chiefson felt it, he showed no sign.
A rumbling began outside; at first Talon thought it was thunder, but then a chariot drawn by four horses, pulling a large wooden cage, came into view and stopped in front of Fylkin.
In the cage were three of Fylkin’s hunting wolves—Chief was one of them.
Fylkin and the Vald driver hollered over the gale. The chiefson took the Vald’s sword and moved to the back of the cage.
He means to loose the wolves on me. Talon realized.
Talon stood in the window, not knowing what to do. If he ran, the wolves would track him down and tear him apart. If he stayed, they would only find him sooner. There was no way out. Chief seemed just as ravenous as the other two wolves.
Fylkin opened the gate, and they circled him, sniffing at the ground. When they began to sniff their way in his direction, Talon turned and ran.
He struggled against the storm as chunks of mud and grass from the huts pelted him from all sides. Behind him came the blood-curdling baying of the wolves; to run was useless. He stopped in his fight against the storm and turned his back to the wind. He planted his feet and swallowed hard. The ring on his finger blazed to life as he clenched the dagger, the power coursed through him once more. He could not risk leading the wolves to his friends; he would make his stand and die like a man.
Through the rain the three wolves came charging at him. The scene was something from a nightmare. Talon focused on Chief and readied his dagger. If he was going to die tonight, he was taking Chief with him. One way or another, they were getting off the island together.
Chief led the pack of snarling wolves as they closed on him. He drew back his dagger to strike, and Chief lunged. In the last moment, Talon lost his resolve and held back the killing blow. He closed his eyes to his fate and thought of Akkeri.
Chief slammed into Talon, pinning him on the ground. He growled down at him, with one big paw on his chest as the other wolves snapped, inches from his face. Fylkin would be close behind.
“Chief! It’s me boy. Don’t you remember me? It’s Talon…Chief?”
The snarl disappeared and returned, disappeared and returned. Chief sniffed at him and Talon dared to pet his coat. The other two wolves growled a warning as he touched his head.
“Your name is Chief, remember? You’re a good boy.”
All of the killing spirit left Chief, and he panted and licked Talon’s face. One of the other wolves suddenly snapped at Talon and Chief attacked it violently. From the left, the other wolf lunged, and Talon quickly stabbed the wolf repeatedly in the neck. The beast snapped at him, but with the power of the ring—the power of two wolves and a Vald—he was the quicker. Talon gave a cry and sunk the dagger into the wolf’s skull. The beast yelped as it reared and fell to the mud, thrashing in death throes.
Talon’s ring pulsed as Fylkin stomped toward him through the rain. There was a gurgling yelp from the other wolf as Chief tore at its throat. Talon searched desperately in the rain and grabbed the first weapon he saw. He took up the long, thick piece of lumber and held it like an axe. Without the ring, he would not have been able to do so.
Fylkin leapt through the air, parting the rain, with his sword arched back. Talon gave a cry and swung the beam with all his might. At the same time, Chief leapt at the flying chiefson. Talon deflected the sword as Chief slammed into the big Vald. The two rolled around in the mud as lightning flashed. Talon drew back his beam to strike but could not get a clean shot at Fylkin. Chief snapped and thrashed violently as Fylkin wrestled him down to the ground. He pinned the wolf by the throat and drew back his blade.
“No!” Talon screamed and swung the lumber.
The sword sank into Chief’s side as the wood slammed into Fylkin’s head. The big Vald went down beside the wolf in the mud.
“Chief!” Talon cried as he fell next to his dying friend.
Chief whimpered and licked at Talon’s shaking hand as he stroked his fur.
“It’s OK, boy, you did real good,” said Talon through tears that mingled with the rain.
Chief’s eyes blinked heavily as Talon fell over him and held him tight.
“Come on, Chief, let’s get out of here. Jahsin has a boat waiting. Akkeri is there too; remember her? We’re going to Agora; we’re going to start a new life together…Chief?”
Talon clung to his friend with his ear to his chest. His heart beat slowly and heavily, and then it beat no more.
“Chief!” he
cried and pulled the wolf up to his chest, rocking back and forth.
The storm became suddenly silent. The rain stopped altogether and the wind died to nothing. Behind him the other Vald swore under his breath. Talon shot up and grabbed Fylkin’s big sword, barely able to manage. The Vald met his eyes and looked back to the prone chiefson. Talon wanted to kill him; he wanted to kill them all. But the ring offered him no strength against an opponent that didn’t attack.
Talon turned and ran for the harbor. Behind him, Fylkin groaned.
He sprinted down the road, hating to leave Chief bleeding in the mud, but he was helpless to do anything. The storm remained silent as the village was now directly under the Eye of Thodin. The funnel of clouds spiraled to the heavens and daylight shone down through, as if the god of gods himself had stopped to witness Talon’s frantic flight for the harbor. He cursed Thodin and all the other gods for allowing Chief to die.
The sound of his footfalls on the sodden road gave a strange, muffled retort. Birds had come out in droves and flew in circles above the village in the still sky. Skomm came out of their hiding places in awe of the glorious sight above them. Some fell to their knees in prayer, heedless that the seven Vald still hunted them.
Talon crested the hill and the harbor came into view. There, by still waters, he saw Akkeri, Jahsin, Vaka Bjorn, and two other Vaka waiting by the ruined pier. Their one-sailed keipr was in the water. He ran to them with renewed vigor and pulled the flag the Vaka had given him at the mines—the flag that indicated Fylkin was dead.
